The Benefit of Imprudence
by Shadow Padawan
Summary: Helene had not planned on taking a lover three months into her marriage. But then she's convinced otherwise.


"I asked Dolokhov to stay with us while we're in Petersburg," Pierre told her with a somewhat bashful smile. He was a little afraid of her, Helene had learned, in the sort of irrational, instinctive way week-willed husbands are often afraid of their more decisive wives.

"You might have asked me before making the decision," Helene informed him coolly, folding up her fan. Her gaze drifted slowly from Pierre's flushed face to Dolokhov's completely composed expression. He was watching her carefully, his gaze taking in her entire figure without settling in any one place at once. She was only briefly acquainted with the officer through Anatole, but she remembered that gaze of his clearly from those times – impudent and unapologetic.

"I won't be in your way, Countess," Dolokhov said calmly after a beat. "I will probably go to Moscow shortly to see family."

"I have no complaint against you, Monsieur Dolokhov. Anatole will be upset he missed you, though."

"How is your brother?"

Helene smiled calmly and began to describe Anatole's misadventures at the Bolkonskis. Pierre, instantly uncomfortable, excused himself within minutes, leaving Helene and Dolokhov alone in the drawing room. "So like Anatole to be hotheaded and mess up a good match with his impatience," Dolokhov remarked when Helene finished telling him of Anatole's brief affair with Princess Bolkonski's French companion.

"I would hope you are not quite so hotheaded," Helene said, giving him a meaningful look.

"As in indiscrete? Then no, not nearly."

Helene unfolded her fan and hid the bottom half of her face with it. She watched Dolokhov from over its laced edge, taking in the breadth of his shoulders and the intense blue of his eyes. She had always thought him terribly handsome and terribly amusing. It was only Anatole's fervent insistence that Dolokhov was only interested in gypsies and actresses that had kept her from attempting a flirtation before. Being married stopped her little. Well, really, it was Pierre's own fault for putting a man of this caliber in their house.

"You will certainly make an appearance at my soiree?" Helene asked. "Petersburg is in need of a good war hero story. With the campaign now over there will be many of those. I would like an edge over the rest in having the first and most dashing one."

Dolokhov rose and took her hand. "Anything for such a lovely hostess. And Anatole's sister." The edges of his mouth twitched upward and the corners of his eyes crinkled in undisguised amusement.

Helene let him kiss her hand and smiled back.

* * *

They lasted three days without indiscretions.

Helene felt hot and exposed every time Dolokhov looked at her. He had a way of making her feel like he could see through more than her clothes but also all the walls she put up. The feeling made her pulse rise and something curl up in the middle of her chest. It swelled and burned, making its way slowly down into her abdomen. There were not a lot of men who could make her feel like that with a single look

Dolokhov's appearance at her party had been a success. It was obvious that he was completely incompatible with her circle of Petersburg high society – they were wary of him and he despised them. But everyone loves a well-told, witty war story and Dolokhov was full of those. When he spoke, he commanded the room with little effort, managed to make himself the center of every narrative without bragging, and no one dared speak a word against his for fear of an honest and cutting reply.

Helene was happy he came, but also knew that this was the last time she could have him at one of her parties without people thinking her uncouth. An element this exotic could be introduced only sparingly for fear that it would quickly become tiresome. Secretly, however, she enjoyed Dolokhov's pointed observations and thought them very clever, even if completely inappropriate for polite company.

That night, Dolokhov caught her in the hall between his rooms and hers, wrapping strong fingers over her wrist. She let him pull her into a dark side-corridor before finally looking up into his face. "What are you doing?" she demanded, her tone as commanding as she could make it without sounding like she was about to call for help.

"Hoping for a word in private." Dolokhov released her wrist but Helene didn't bother stepping away. In the narrow passage their chests were almost touching. "Were you satisfied with my performance in front of those clowns?"

"Surely you didn't just insult my friends."

He smirked. "You think hardly better of them than I do. But they give you position. Same as your husband."

"How dare you?" She had wanted to sound irritated, but instead was forced to fight a wave of girlish giggles. He was right, of course.

"Let's not pretend, Countess. Your brother talks about you too often for your façade to hold."

Inwardly, Helene cursed Anatole for being such an insufferable gossip. "You might be surprised."

"I might be…" He regained hold of her hand and leaned closer to whisper into her ear, "…but I doubt it."

Dolokhov's warm breath against her ear made Helene's pulse quicken. There was that painful swelling feeling in her chest and her abdomen. She knew exactly what he wanted, noticed how lately he was slipping up, his eyes wondering to her breasts more often. She had to admit that she also wanted to take off that thick uniform jacket of his, explore his well-toned chest, run her hands through his curly hair. But that was a freedom she did not feel like she could take just yet – someone like Dolokhov must be used to easy victories and she did not feel like giving him another one.

At that moment, she felt his lips against her neck. A flurry of heat exploded over Helene and she stepped back abruptly. "You really do presume much, Monsieur Dolokhov," she said quietly and firmly, but not without a tinge of warmth. "Goodnight."

* * *

Dolokhov never openly flirted with her in front of Pierre and never intruded on her explicitly private areas or activities. Sometimes he would say something or look at her in a way that said that he wanted her and she would encourage him with a smile or a laugh.

When they were alone – which was not often – they talked about Anatole and some other mutual acquaintances. He told her of officers' pranks and she described her numerous insipid suitors. Sometimes, they would read _Liaisons Dangereuses _aloud and speculate on who in their social circles would make a good Cecile and who a Madame de Tourville. Dolokhov had no prejudices and no presumptions about what their relationship was supposed to look like. He cared about her baby brother and found her husband amusing while baring him no real ill will. He looked at her the way Pierre never did – with desire and friendship all bundled into one.

On her last night in Petersburg, Helene was due at Princess N—'s party. As she dressed, a bouquet was brought to her room. Corianders and red carnations.

"From my husband?" she asked, adopting a disinterested tone, knowing the answer before the maid gave it.

"No, Madame."

Helene walked over to her writing desk and quickly wrote a note: _I will be at Princess N—'s tonight. Alone. _She folded it and handed it back to the maid. "Have this delivered back to the sender." The maid looked uncertain, taking the note gingerly, but curtsied and left without argument.

Helene considered the dress she was going to wear, considered the cleavage and to what extent it would bring out her eyes. Then decided against it and went for a deep green gown instead. It was just a fraction less fashionable, but it brought out her shape better. The green one would serve her purpose for the night much better.

* * *

"Halt! Stop the carriage. Stop, I said." The neighing of horses and deep-throated curses of the coachman made Helene draw back the velvet curtain on the carriage window to see what was happening. She was tired after the party and annoyed that Dolokhov had not shown.

The snow was falling lightly and there was little light on this particular street. A young officer in a greatcoat and a cap pulled low over his forehead was exchanging sharp words with her coachman. After several moments of this, the officer came up to the carriage and opened the door without any hesitation.

"Countess, I was afraid you might take a different route." Dolokhov grinned boyishly at her, balancing on the step of the carriage. He took off his cap and gave her something that imitated a bow.

"I suppose it was too much to ask you to actually come to the party?" Helene asked reproachfully, but she didn't protest when he got in and shut the door.

"I don't like coming to parties I wasn't invited to. Unless it makes a significant scene, of course."

Helene couldn't help but laugh. "Of course," she intoned a little sarcastically. "But what is the point of this?"

The carriage began to move again. "What was the purpose of your note?" He sat close to her so that their thighs were touching, separated by layers of thick fabric but she could still feel the warmth emanating from his body.

She turned to look at him and instantly found herself swimming in the pools of his liquid blue eyes. A hot fire burned in their depths, a scorching white flame of desire. Helene felt the same heat within herself. She found his hand and slid her fingers over his wrist and arm, playing with the ends of his curls. She felt his arms encircle her waist and looked straight into his face. They were so close she could feel his breath against her cheeks.

He kissed her long and hard. Helene felt herself floating as lips found hers and she could taste the whisky he'd been drinking earlier that night. Helene slipped out from her furs and pressed herself against him. Dolokhov's hands instantly found her breasts and then began to unlace her corset. She hummed pleasantly into their kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck. She felt the bodice of her gown loosen and moments later, Dolokhov broke their kiss to pay court to her neck and her breasts. Helene clung to his shoulders as he sucked on her nipples. Her nerves prickled and burned, the bubble in her abdomen growing.

She wanted him. She wanted him right there and then.

Helene fumbled with the clasps of his uniform jacket and the buttons of his shirt. Dolokhov helped her, albeit distractedly, with one hand while the second stayed at the small of her back, keeping her close to him. Once his jacket and shirt were properly opened, she slipped one hand under the fabric and explored his chest, shoulders and back. She felt the outlines of taunt muscles and a couple of old scars. His body was warm, contrasting sharply with the cold air. Helene reached lower, searching for the ties of his britches but he caught her hand and pushed away just a little.

"Don't you want to wait until we're somewhere...more comfortable?" The tip of his nose pressed to hers and their rapid breathing mixed. Dolokhov's voice was rough with longing and his eyes burned like cold flames as he looked at her.

Helene considered it, but her body screamed at her to not stop. Her nipples were painfully hard and she was wet between the legs, the tickling, swelling feeling in her abdomen pulsing slowly, demanding attention.

"No. Here. Now."

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a moan and growl and in one fluid motion shifted their positions, pulling Helene up onto his lap. He was now leaning against the back of the seat and if she leaned back a little, her back would hit the opposite wall. Instead, Helene only pressed closer to him, pushing up her skirts.

Dolokhov returned to kissing her neck. His hand ventured under her skirts and found her thigh, then slid further up it until it landed between her legs at her opening. He fingered her slowly, methodically, searching for the right spot until Helene could hardly breathe from the jolts of pleasure that ran through her. The carriage was jolting slightly so she had to cling tightly to him to keep balance. She wrapped one arm around his neck and fisted the other in his hair. She could feel Dolokhov's erection against her leg.

Helene tipped her head back, giving him better access to her neck. Some of her curls fell out of her up-do and tickled her flushed cheeks. She lost herself briefly in the sensation of his hands and lips on her body. This was nothing like what she had ever felt before, nothing like Pierre's clumsy fumblings in the dark. She was hot and wet, burning to feel herself filled. She wanted desperately to sever the tight knot in her abdomen, pop the bubble, release the tension. They were shielded from the outside world by the walls of the carriage and the curtains on the windows. She could imagine the streets and houses outside, the people who had no idea what was going on at that minute in the depths of the equipage that raced past them. If they were to know, they would be scandalized. The thought both frightened and excited Helene.

The feeling of Dolokhov's member against her bare skin surprised her. Briefly, Helene wondered if she should stop him, if this was wise, but she was far too tightly wound by then, too eager for release. She allowed him to take her, fill her to the brim. She let out a small sound of pleasure – taking him in did not hurt, although she was still not perfectly used to the feeling either.

Their first attempts at a rhythm were awkward and rough. The jolting of the carriage often broke what connection they managed to establish. Helene braced herself against his shoulders and Dolokhov held her by the hips, pressing her down as he thrust up into her. Helene allowed him to lead, as though they were dancing a waltz. Finally, they caught a rhythm, waiting out the jolts and bumps of the road before resuming. Helene felt her pulse even out with their movements, increasing as the tension inside her grew. She pressed her forehead to his, mumbling words in French that barely made sense to her own ears. Her vision swam as the pleasantly painful pleasure that every thrust created escalated to barely tolerable levels…

…And then the bubble burst. Helene let out a loud, relieved sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. Her arms shook and she collapsed against Dolokhov's chest. He took one hand off her hips and tipped her chin up so she was looking into his eyes. From what she could tell in the dark, they were glazed over and unfocussed. He kissed her, thrust within her several more times and she felt the spreading warmth of his seed inside her. He nipped at her lip as he came and she could taste the blood in her mouth almost instantly, but at the moment it didn't bother her. All the tension had gone out of her body and she simply lay against his chest, her hands roaming lazily over his hot skin. After a moment, she realized he was saying her name, repeating it like a prayer.

She was mildly baffled, her mind hazy. This wasn't the first orgasm she had ever had, but certainly the first one a man had given her. As a maiden, she had not dared risk a consummated affair, and as a wife…lovemaking was not one of Pierre's talents. The carriage gave one final lurch and came to a stop. They were home.

Hastily, Helene pulled away and pulled on her coat. She buttoned and fastened it tightly around herself so that the disarray her dress was in could not be seen. Dolokhov made himself as presentable as possible as well. He climbed out first and offered her his hand. She stepped down, not meeting his eyes, though she could tell he was watching her. The cold winter air was sharp and biting against her flushed skin, but Helene hardly noticed. Her mind was still there in the carriage, in the warmth of her lover's arms.

Inside, at the top of the staircase, Helene finally looked up into his face. Dolokhov's greatcoat was tightly buttoned and just a little askew and his curls were mussed, but otherwise nothing about his appearance gave away their dalliance, not even the way he looked at her – intense and warm as always, but not at all abashed. "I was thinking I would go to Moscow tomorrow as well. Would you be displeased?" he asked.

"No, I would like that. I think you and I could be very good friends, Monsieur Dolokhov." She smiled softly, the way she only ever smiled at Anatole. The way she would never smile at her husband or perhaps any other person in the world. This was perhaps the most imprudent thing she had ever done, that she would ever do.

And she loved it.


End file.
